AP American: Living History
by TwilightMoon317
Summary: Alfred is asked to take the place of an AP teacher the week before the biggest exam of the year! Fortunately for these kids, he knows a little something about American History. Hmm, maybe I should actually study for that...APUSH! 'T' for war/violence
1. Today

Alfred nervously straightened his tie, wondering what these kids would be like and if he could actually manage to hold their attention for forty minutes if he could even catch their attention from the beginning. Unfortunately for him, it would not be too hard to capture this class, rather it would be more difficult to convince them that, no he was not joking, he was their guest lecturer and was going to be there all week, helping them review for their rapidly upcoming AP United States History exam.

When reminded of the looming examination, the class quickly became somber and paid him rapt attention: with twenty-two pairs of eyes on him, his palms were beginning to sweat and his tie suddenly felt too tight.

"Are you really going to teach us for a week?" One girl blurted out, turning as red as her hair. "Wouldn't it make more sense for our actual teacher to be here? He taught us all year…I mean, it's just…weird."

He laid out his notes on the small podium, suddenly realizing how large he was compared to these teenagers: his nineteen years to their sixteen or seventeen was not so large a gap, but it was his status as a nation that made him feel older and wiser to these teens. The things he had written on paper scraps seemed insignificant now, crumpled in his hands, and he realized that they were all still waiting for him to answer the girl.

"It would, yes, but he's not here. I am. Now, where would you like me to start?"

A tentative hand was raised by a boy in the back of the classroom. "At the beginning?"

Alfred laughed and the air in the room became more laid back and relaxed, not so stiff and formal as when he first had walked in.

"The beginning is a long way off! It was so long ago when-" he stopped suddenly, realizing what he had almost let slip " 'it was so long ago when I was a child' probably would have made him lose his credibility.

"Um, DeCarlo said that you would be able to start from the beginning…if you wanted to?"

"The beginning is fine. Let me see…'once upon a time-'-"

"The AP graders killed anyone who dared begin an essay with 'once upon a time'." Someone scoffed, causing a few muted or stifled giggles to erupt behind pursed lips of covered mouths.

"Fine then. The beginning."


	2. The 1600's:

**The 1600's:**

**1607:**

It was nice to have someone there with him, even though he was used to being on his own, and the man with fuzzy eyebrows and a bad temper was fun, a welcome change. People were coming to his shores, people with pale skin, pale hair, pale eyes, so unlike the native people who had cared for him until this point, until the presence of a people called 'England' arrived. Colonies were built and settled, some prospered, some failed, most just existed. And he grew.

He grew tall and stringy, much like the reeds that grew on the shores of 'Jamestown', the swampy, ugly place that was a permanent hub now, filled with infection and insects that carried sickness. England did not come here much to visit, so Alfred moved, moved from place to place, hoping that he would be raised in the eyes of his caregiver. 'Jamestown' moved with him too, until he decided that it was not worth moving the town any longer. It was set down, permanently, on the 'James River', in 'Virginia'. All these names were so strange, so…_English_. These were not his names.

**1620:**

His was a land of religious freedom, he was coming to realize as he grew older and wiser, even if it was only a few inches added to his height and years to a number. Alfred poked his head out from behind a tree, watching England help people carry their things to dry land, even though there was not much: the Puritans traveled light, to be sure.

The Anglicans over in England were making it difficult for these poor people to practice their religion to the extent that they desired it; to be rid of such persecution, they had come here, to his shores and to settle on his land. England thought that some religion would be good for him, on account of his 'heathen' upbringing. Alfred thought that this was ridiculous, as they had a perfectly fine 'religion' in which everything and everyone was respected. These Puritans looked down their noses at him, tolerating his existence but never trusting him. He could not even play with their children, for their strict parents felt that they would become like him: the Puritans had migrated from the Netherlands, had moved to his shores because they thought their children were becoming too Dutch; they needed a place where they could practice their religion and still be 'English'.

The Virginia Company was up to the task and took forty-one willing pilgrims, making the number on board the large (in Alfred's young eyes) Mayflower one-oh-two.

That was when Alfred's first concepts of European government were introduced: the Mayflower Compact bound these meager settlers together, the government bending and submitting to the will of the majority.

**1680**

No one went back. They all stayed on his land, things went well, and the English began to populate the new land, getting along for the most part. The Salem Witch Trials spotted that clean record.

Women who had no children or husbands were tried as witches, those with a low social position, those widows who had not remarried…Alfred was present at all the hangings, twenty women, many of whom had taken care of him in the winter, when he found it pleasing to be in a warm home, and two dogs.

"Why are they doing this? Surely this is not what the Lord desires His people to do: kill other followers of Him." He had whispered at one hanging, this one of a girl a few years older than himself.

A solemn old woman, hardened by years without a husband, coughed beside him.

"The Lord has ways, unknown to His flock. It is His will. And," she sighed. "I may be next. So, pray thee for mine own soul."

Sure enough, Alfred watched with young and horrified eyes as the undesired or useless individuals in society were disposed of, accused of witchcraft, the poor resenting the rich: he wept bitter tears that his land be stained with such a horror, not knowing what lay in his future.


	3. Until 1775

**The 1700's:**

**1730:**

He was jostled as smaller children made their way up to the platform where the man stood; spouting some religious things and making the crowd erupt in 'God frenzy'. Surrounding him were the poor and down trod, those with uncertain futures and who were economically challenged in the part of him now known as 'New England'.

At first he had been proud of that name, but England was away more and more, leaving him to navigate his way though the complexities of religion and its Great Evangelists scared him the most: John and Charles Wesley; George Whitefield; Theodore Frelinghuysen; Gilbert Tennent; especially Jonathan Edwards, who was now convincing the crowd that the way to Hell was paved with the skulls of un-baptized babies, making mothers sob and hold up their children, making the whole of the Common erupt with noise.

This was an epidemic, Alfred realized, as he elbowed his way to peace and quiet. There was a division among these preaching men, but for the first time, his people (they weren't really) were united under one cause: it made him feel good, to be whole.

And educated. People were founding colleges, theological colleges, to that colonists could learn to read the bible.

It would not last long.

**1754:**

"Bloody frog, I told you to get out!" England slammed his palms down on the table and Alfred winced, careful not to make a sound from where he was hiding to overhear the conversation. "I had a claim on that land!"

France scoffed, unfazed by the Briton's anger, merely coming around the table and lightly flicking the Englishman on the forehead.

"You had a land claim, _oui_, but," he smirked, "no one was there to prove otherwise so, it was easy to set traps and befriend the native people, and now, I believe the Ohio river Valley belongs to me."

"Like hell it does, Francis." England growled quietly. "It's mine and you will leave. This instant."

"You were not using it, what is the harm?" France sauntered to the door and Alfred quickly reeled back, afraid of being caught. "Now, where is the boy? Part of him is mine now and-"

SLAP!

His mouth gaped open at England's action: never before had he seen him so violent. The Frenchman stared, resting one of him own palm on his red and stinging cheek, his mouth pursing into a harsh line.

"You will regret that action, _Angleterre_." His voice was soft and threatening, like the hiss of a snake, and with a mighty flourish, he threw his cape on. "Just wait."

Alfred stumbled back from the door, scrambling into the sitting room so he would watch France leave the house. Grabbing a book and settling on the hearth, the little colony pretended to read, hearing the heavy tread of boots on the wooden floor.

It was not like him to be afraid, but the look in France's eyes was one of anger and hatred and his head was held high and proud. He was about to pull open the door when he finally noticed the little colony. Instantly, the gaze softened and he abandoned the door, instead approaching the boy.

His blood froze as he saw that England was standing in the doorway, looking ready to kill: France did not seem to notice and knelt beside him.

"Mon petit ange, I am sorry." He stroked Alfred's hair, sighing. "So sorry."

The colony looked up from the pages and glimpsed the misty eyes of the Frenchman before he stood to leave.

"I thought I told you to go." England said, venom in his voice.

France made his way to the door, opening it before turning to face his rival. "For his sake, _Angleterre, _consider what you have just done."

The door clicked shut, softly separating them from the Frenchman. Alfred sat up, staring at his guardian, confused and apprehensive. "What did he mean?"

England let silence take over, moving to his usual chair by the fire and slumping into it: this shocked his ward, as the nation was a stickler for perfect posture.

"Nothing. I will not let him touch you. I promise."

Alfred was aware of his states meeting, if only for a short while, discussing defensive measures against the French, stressing the importance of relations with the Indians…he only partly heard what the men were saying. Something was building in his gut, a tension that he did not like the feeling of.

He hoped no one noticed.

**1756:**

Two years. Two years of undeclared war had left Alfred a sick, little, mess of a person, a shell of his former self. In that time he had only seen glimpses of France and England, most often they were fighting. He was almost taller than England now, and usually much stronger, but this fight was draining him: he had to house England's soldiers, clothe them, feed them, supply them- it was exhausting and his people were growing restless.

They were gathering.

After England's continued losses to the French, who were a force to be reckoned with after the Indians joined them, his people wanted something more: they wanted to win. Those loyal to the king did just that, after raising an army. And Alfred joined them.

He reloaded his gun, already accustomed to the feeling of the weapon in his young hands, taking aim and preparing to fire when someone caught his eye: dark skin, dark hair, flashing green eyes…he looked so familiar, yet-"

Suddenly they were face to face, the man's small gun aimed at his head and his at the man's chest. They were the only two left, all others dead, dying, or having already fled. It was choking, the silence that filled the air.

"No, there is no way-" the man whispered, lowering his gun.

"_España_?" Alfred was surprised at the name that rolled so easily off his tongue.

"Ha, it is you!" the Spaniard bounded over to him, knocking the gun aside and enveloping him in a hug. "Look at how big you have gotten, _mi hijo_. ¡_Dios mío_, just look at you!" Alfred was pried away from Spain's welcoming arms by France.

"This is war, Spain," he said, a twinkle of mirth in his strange eyes. "One which we are now losing, thanks to this boy here. Your colonists are quite the force, little Alfred." He said, setting the boy back on his feet and handing him his gun.

"Not mine, England's."

"Non, they are yours. You will see that soon." France nudged Spain back and the two were about to leave but Alfred called them back.

"What do you mean, France?"

There was a chuckle from the blonde nation. "This has been a costly little war for _Angleterre_, for which I apologize in advance, Alfred. But remember, be strong and I will help you."

The colony was left to ponder France's words.

**1763:**

**F**inally, there would be some rest for Alfred, something he had desired for a long time and would finally receive. He had grown, again, and it was making him restless.

"Right, France, you can keep the French West Indies. Spain, you may have French Louisiana." England settled back in his chair, evidently pleased with himself.

"And just what do you get, _Angleterre_?" France asked, exhausted, not really wanting to hear the terms of his loss.

"Everything else. All the land east of the Mississippi, Canada, Florida-"

"_Non_, not Canada, I beg of you-"

Spain rested a hand on France's slumped shoulders as England smirked. "To the victor go the spoils, France. You should have learned that by now."

The nation was distraught. "But my Canada, _mon Mathieu_, please, _Angleterre_, not Mathieu." Alfred wanted to approach the man, but England glared at him, making him shrink back.

"Sign the paper, Francis." Spain said quietly, scrawling his name on the treaty, The Treaty of Paris of 1763. "You'll see Canada again, you know it too."

"Oui, but this is too much." France whispered back as he took the quill in his pale hand, shaking with restrained tears. "He will pay for this, _par Dieu_, I will make that sure."

He signed his name.

After the two left, England stood, turning to face his colony.

"Thank you, England," he said quietly, knowing that it was right to thank his protector.

"You cannot expand anymore."

"I-what?" Alfred sputtered, caught of guard. " I thought-"

"That damned confederation of Indians is angry and I do not want to have to pay for another war because of your stupidity." He said, growing angry. "Blankets infected with small pox, the nerve."

"That was your soldiers, not mine! This is ridiculous and I-"

"The Royal Proclamation of 1763 forbids your expansion past the Appalachian Mountains. It is for the best." England walked over to the tea what had stood waiting for him on a low table, his back to the colony.

"I helped fight for that land!"

England turned on him, angry. "You are also going to help pay for that war, young man." His eyes blazed and Alfred pursed his lips. "I will begin taxing you shortly."

Looking back, it was probably not the best idea to just walk out of the room and out of the house, but Alfred did just that, angry with himself for doing so.

It was the end of his good relations with England.

**Late 1760's –Early 1770's:**

(1761) It had been a long time since England had paid him any attention at all, let alone this much: for the longest time, he had been left to do whatever he wanted. Alfred still had produced goods for the England, the practice of mercantilism still in play, but he had also been making plays under the table, collecting profit from a lucrative rum-molasses trade with the West Indies, both French and British, with slaves in the mix as well: England's trade laws had been nothing but a good laugh until now.

France encouraged him to continue this practice, the smuggling, to help his economy as well as make Alfred come to resent the English laws.

"What _Angleterre_ does not know cannot hurt him, _oui_?"

Alfred agreed, continuing to trade with France and England… until England found out.

"I protect you, I fight wars for you, _I raised you_ and you trade with him?!" England fumed, making Alfred regret his taking of Francis' advice: he should have known it would only make his life more miserable. "Now you make me search your ships! Every last one." Thus, England created Writs of Assistance, which allowed his officials to search ships that they thought were smuggling in items or any ship for any reason. Alfred took this in silence.

"This is ridiculous." One man said, blocking the passage that led to his ship. "You've got nothin' on me."

"We have a Writ of Assistance to search your ship, sir." The soldier said coolly, looking at the man with disdain. Alfred cradled his head in his hands, hoping that he would not do anything too stupid.

"Take it to court; you've got nothin' on me."

So they did, sixty-three men represented by a fiery James Otis: unfortunately for Otis, the courts had been taken over by British judges and officials, juries were suspended, and the punishments had become ridiculous. Americans found smuggling were pretty much done for and British soldiers accused of crimes were let off easy or not tried at all. Technically, Alfred's man had lost, but England was shaken hy the blow to his Parliament's authority.

Alfred was tiring of these ridiculous laws quickly: for a while, at least, British colonists on the American continent were content to be a piece of the vast British empire, content to be controlled and used in return for aid and protection when it was needed, but soon, the people were not longer British. They had European blood, to be sure, but they were not European, they were Americans who were slowly coming to resent the firm footing England had found in their lives and business.

Americans…America…was this him, who he was meant to be? England had called him that once or twice before, so it was possible. The name just fit, like the memory of Spain had. This feeling of change also fit, as though this was his destiny: to change the order of things.

**1764:**

England was not recovering like Alfred had anticipated, or maybe he was just getting greedy, but the Sugar Act was place upon the colonies, 1733's Molasses Act revised, which was passed by England's Parliament to raise colonial revenue.

"England," he said, noticing the lower tone his voice had taken in the recent years. "England, my people are none too please with these taxes."

He heard a snort. "Your people? Alfred, they are not your people, they are mine."

"America." He said softly, under his breath.

"I beg your pardon?" England turned to face him. "What did you say?"

"Call me America."

For a moment, the only sound that could be heard was the crackle of the fire and the gentle clink of England's teacup on his saucer: Alfred could not see him shaking.

"Fine, if you so wish." England raised the cup to his lips, looking at him curiously from over the rim. "Perhaps they are displeased because you have no sound system of currency, hmm?"

"Perhaps." Alfred said, not believing the lies of the snake. England's words bothered him. They were his people…

_They are not your people, they are mine._

Whose were they?

Next came the Currency Act, which had Parliament taking control over American currency to control the printing of money and the regulation of such. It really was not so bad, having a sound currency: the people liked a little security when it came to money. There were small grumbles of dislike for the British imposing themselves on America's currency.

**1765:**

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Alfred said, wanting to rant and rave but keeping himself in check. "Another tax? You are killing the livelihoods of my people! Do you understand that?"

England sighed from behind his cup of tea. "Watch your tone, young man."

"What more do you need from us? There should be no taxation of my colonies without proper representation and consent-" He closed his eyes, wincing as someone else's words passed his lips, the words of one of his people, in this case Thomas Whately, one of his friends who could no longer circulate his political pamphlets.

"_Your_ colonies?" England scoffed. "This is becoming a bad habit, boy: for the last time, they are _my_ colonies and _my_ people."

"England, there are riots over this Stamp Act! Newspapers are dying out because printers cannot afford paper, what'll become of the news?

"You certainly have developed your own, more republican views about taxation and other such governmental issues."

"I want Parliament out of the government," Alfred announced. "The Stamp Act Congress is supporting nonimportation. Shove off. They are not yours any longer."

The teacup cracked in England's hand and he hurled the piece with the handle at Alfred's head, his colony dodging just in time for the fine porcelain to shatter on the wall behind him, effectively startling him out of his pig-headedness.

"You," England said through gritted teeth, "are burning bridges, boy. Ones that I will not rebuilt. Be warned."

Alfred swallowed hard. "It's too late to warn me."

**1773-1774-1775**

(1773) The Tea Act came next, angering his people even further: one more push, a little shove and it would be too late to go back, take back whatever he had said to England, attempt to repair the damaged relationship he now had with his guardian. The thought made him sad, the fact that he was slowly losing England: the man had raised him, sung him lullabies, cared for him.

It was so dark out that Alfred thought there was no way any of the men could possibly see where they were going and it made him think of the soft tones of England's voice when he had sung to him, in the dark of the night, to calm his fears of the blackness and hush his small sobs. With a soft chuckle, he began to sing under his breath:

"_Hush-a-bye don't you cry,  
Go to sleep-y, little baby.  
When you wake you shall have  
All the pretty little horses.  
Blacks and bays, dapple grays,  
Coach and six white horses.  
Hush-a-bye don't you cry,  
Go to sleep-y, little baby."_

One of the younger men near him laughed quietly.

"Got a little 'un at home?" Alfred shook his head at the man's question. "Ah. That's what I sing to mine. Little Tommy." They were coming closer to the ships. "They should have just listened when we told 'em to shove off. Now all that tea's going overboard." Alfred nodded, not trusting himself to speak: this was his chance to act out against England, show him without violence that he wanted the leash loosened; right now it was choking him.

Thomas Hutchinson had made the mistake of not allowing the ships to be turned away by angry colonists who disliked the Tea Act, for now that tea was going to be dumped into Boston Harbor: instead of giving in to undesired legislature, the colonists were going to destroy the cargo. There would be no concession: Alfred could see himself now, standing before England and being chewed out, thoroughly, so as to prevent another Tea Party from happening.

He pried open a chest of tea, lifting it himself and tossing the whole chest overboard, satisfied and sickened by the splash that it made in the cold water. Some of the feathers on his headpiece tickled his nose; he blew them away and pried open another chest.

(1774) "I cannot believe that you would do such a thing! Perfectly good tea, wasted because you cannot keep a level head!" England paced in his study, Alfred standing quietly in the door.

He did not make a sound.

"Have you anything to say for yourself?!"

Alfred turned on his heel and left, shutting the door behind him.

England wrenched it back open. "Your people will pay for your insolence, do you hear me, young man?" He shouted down the hall. Alfred kept walking.

He had finally admitted that they were his now, _his people_!"

It was all meant to crush colonial resistance, make his people respect England and all he stood for, and respect his Parliament, his people, and his orders. This was a direct violation of what his people thought were their rights. Alfred felt the same sensation in his gut, the same kind of uneasiness that had come about from the French and Indian War. _Please_, he begged, gaze directed skyward, _please, not again_.

(1775) He sat in on the second Continental Congress, deciding on what should be done about this British taxation issue, creating colonial governments. Richard Henry Lee was furious, his feathers having been ruffled by the passage of such atrocities.

"They are a most wicked system for destroying the liberty of America!"

John Adams gave him a look that distinctly said 'I told you so.'

"It is a violation of our colonial charters and our natural rights as people!"

Alfred noticed that one of the men he was sitting near was scribbling something down on small scraps of paper that had no official stamp on them: smuggled paper in an illegal meeting, joy of joys.

"What are you doing?" He whispered, watching Lee and Adams fight, shifting his chair closer to the man. "Taking notes…Governor Morris?"

"None of your business, young man." He snapped, pulling the scraps closer to his body and vlocking Alfred's view of the little papers.

Sighing, he turned back to the verbal fight, scanning the room. Some of the people he knew he was never going to see again, some of them he knew were…were something more than ordinary humans.

"Do they always fight like this?" He mumbled under his breath to no one inparticular.

"Yes, yes they do." A red haired man said pleasantly. " I know from expirence: Adams hates Lee and Richard just does not seem to pick up on it."

Alfred looked the man up and down. "You wrote the Olive Branch Petition."

"I did. But Dickinson thought my language…too offensive to send to a king."

He snorted, quickly covering the sound with a cough. "Did he now? Well, that damned king deserved a little offensive language."

"My thoughts exactly."

"You've never talked this much before. At least, not to my knowledge."

The man pursed his lips. "Perhaps."

Adams was at full swing now, getting into his role. "We need a war, I am telling you! No one here listens!"

Alfred was there.

And he listened.

AN: Well, that was a bit longer. Yay, REVOLUTION NEXT!!! Extra Credit Points: Who was the greatest man in American history? ALSO Who was the man with RED HAIR?!


	4. NOTICE

Well, ladies and gents, I seemed to have lost my APUSH notebook. You know, the one with all the lecture notes that was my life up until the AP exam…which I remember having when I walked into the church to take the test…but I don't remember the book leaving with me. Which presents a problem: those were some detailed notes. Like, name dropping, little historical nuances galore.

I'm still looking. I WILL FIND IT. Even if I have to (gulp) go back into the church. Seriously, it's not fun sitting under a giant cross to take an exam. EVERY year, right under it. That's what you get with a last name that begins 'Abe'. Curses.


End file.
